The Rush Before We Touch
by Shiroimono
Summary: Myrtle and Jordan, a party at Gatsby's, a little too much champagne and some swing music. Oneshot, Myrdan.


Myrtle was not like Jordan expected.

Well, to begin with, Jordan had no idea her name was Myrtle. She'd known Tom had got himself a woman (the way he always did, the way he was somewhat expected to) but none of the specifics. The woman, faceless and nameless, had seemed vaguely sinister to Jordan, stealing Daisy's husband and letting him do what he wanted. Brazen, too, to call in the middle of dinner. That had been about the sum of Jordan's thoughts on the matter.

But when she met Myrtle, she was rather surprised.

They met at a Gatsby party, as one might guess. Everything happened at Gatsby parties. Everyone was there, and nothing was forbidden. It was why Jordan was so fond of them, though until now she'd been perhaps a bit less lucky than she might have liked.

The night had only just begun and Jordan was only halfway through a glass of champagne when she stumbled right into the woman. Clumsy, she almost knocked her over before the woman steadied her and helped her out of the crowd, over to a table. She sat down. All right, so maybe it wasn't her first glass of champagne that night. Still, it was a pity—in the collision, the rest of it had spilled.

And some of it had spilled onto the woman's dress.

"I'm terribly sorry," Jordan said, staring at the stain where the champagne had soaked into the woman's front. It was a decent dress too—a pinkish red that matched the woman's bandana but contrasted with her more orange red hair. Well cut to show off her chest (if you had it why not flaunt it?) and good fabric that didn't deserve the spill. "Terribly sorry," she repeated, still feeling a bit dizzy. Was that the champagne at work, or the woman's eyes, both bright and dark at once, fixated with concern and sympathy on Jordan's face?

The woman laughed. "Oh, it's fine." She stuck out a hand. "I'm Myrtle Wilson."

"Jordan Baker," Jordan said, shaking the hand firmly. She had a moist hand. Supposedly that meant one was ready for love. A fine time to remember that piece of Shakespearean trivia, though. Irrelevant. "I'm sorry I ruined your dress."

"It is a nice dress, isn't it?" Myrtle said. "But I have lots of dresses like those now. So it doesn't really matter." She grinned. "You must think me extravagant. I'm not. I've just got myself a man who treats me good for once, and why shouldn't I enjoy it?"

"Why not?" Jordan agreed. "To find a man like that is rare." Briefly, she'd thought Nick might be a man like that. But no. He was far too wrapped up in his own mind and his own worries to be an attentive lover, the kind she'd always wanted. She thought perhaps he'd never fully come home from the war. She still liked him, but trying to go out with a man like that would only be setting herself up for heartbreak.

"He's rich," Myrtle said. "And he buys me lots of nice things. Prettier dresses than I've ever had before. He bought me a dog, too."

Jordan, who was not a dog person, smiled politely nonetheless. "How darling." She found she was quickly losing interest, although she had been intensely interested in Myrtle just a couple minutes before. Half drunk, she found it hard to connect why. Her eyes focused on Myrtle's lips, smeared with bright red lipstick, fat and juicy, and she remembered.

"He brought me to this party," Myrtle said. "It's a great party, isn't it? Do you know Gatsby?"

"Only as much as I know everyone," Jordan said. She knew a lot of people at the party, and few as more than a name and a face. Knowing Gatsby's tragic backstory was something, she supposed, but they still didn't exactly associate.

"I haven't met him. He's very mysterious."

"Really, he's not as interesting once you get to know him," Jordan said. Men were all the same when you got down to it. "Who did you come with?"

Myrtle put a hand to her mouth. "Well, I'm really not supposed to say. He's married. I'm married too. It's not good for people to know about it."

Her mouth said no but her eyes said yes. Jordan smiled. "What's a little affair? I can keep a secret. Probably I don't even know who it is."

"Maybe you do, maybe you don't," Myrtle said. "He's pretty well known."

She probably did, if it was someone in the upper circles. Who knew if they were as high up as Myrtle said, though. It was easy to impress someone as innocent as she seemed to be. And even if Jordan did know, it was highly doubtful she would care.

"Come on," Jordan said. "He came with you, didn't he? Why shouldn't you talk about him if you like?"

Myrtle licked her lips. "Well. I guess it's not that much of a secret."

"You can whisper it in my ear if it makes you feel better," Jordan said, leaning in, her ear cocked. She could feel Myrtle's breath on her face now, warm and fruity. She must have been drinking as much as Jordan, though apparently champagne was not her poison of choice.

"All right," Myrtle said. And then, leaning a little bit closer, just close enough to cement the scandal, she murmured, "Tom Buchanan."

Well then.

Jordan straightened up, poker face tight. She didn't want to frown—for some reason, even with this revelation she still liked Myrtle, who was apparently the woman she'd cursed out with Daisy more than one night—but she couldn't act appropriately shocked but pleased. It was just a little too close for home.

"You do know him then," Myrtle said, catching her reaction.

"Yes," Jordan said. "And I'm sorry he's the one you were talking about."

Myrtle giggled uncomfortably. "What, did you want him for yourself?" She crossed her arms, unconsciously defensive. Jordan felt vaguely sorry, but someone needed to tell the woman what she was getting herself into.

"No," Jordan said. "Definitely not." She pulled a cigarette out of her purse and fumbled for a lighter. Alcohol for partying, smoke to cover up awkwardness. "But he's not the kind of man you think he is. He doesn't treat his women well, no matter what you say."

"He treats me better than George ever did."

"So he hasn't hit you yet?" Jordan asked. She paused. It was a bit of a bluff—Tom had only hit Daisy a few times as far as Jordan knew, and Daisy had never outright told Jordan even though it had been obvious from the bruises. But judging by Myrtle's hesitant silence, she guessed she was right on the money. "He hasn't cheated on you?" There, she knew she was on firm ground.

"He's going to get rid of his wife," Myrtle said. "She just won't leave him yet because she's Catholic. He doesn't love her."

"Love is subjective," Jordan said. "But Daisy Buchanan isn't Catholic, and Tom Buchanan is not an honest man." She finally managed to light the cigarette up. "Dump him. He's not worth your time."

"Fuck you," Myrtle said.

Maybe she'd gone a little hard on her.

"No seriously, fuck you," Myrtle repeated, seeing Jordan raise an eyebrow. "Who do you think you are? I never asked for your advice on any of this, you drunk bitch."

Jordan couldn't really take offense at any of that. She was a bitch, after all, and she was somewhat drunk. She shrugged. "I've never claimed to be good at minding my own business." Unlike Nick, who somehow refused to take a side in any of the affairs they were mired in. Another reason the two of them would never work out.

Myrtle said, "Maybe you should learn." She turned to walk out onto the dance floor again—probably to find Tom—and Jordan snagged her arm. She turned back around. "What?"

"I really didn't mean any offense," Jordan said. "He's no good. But you'll do what you want, of course, and you don't have to believe me. Perhaps just think it over."

Myrtle pursed her lips. Jordan cut her off before she could swear again. "Let me make it up to you. Please." She stood. "You know how to dance?"

Myrtle laughed, a little uncertainly. "Of course."

"Let's dance, then, and be good friends. I'd like to be friends with you."

She pulled Myrtle out onto the dance floor, hand firmly on her wrist, and then into a simple dance. She took the man's part, of course. Back when she had lessons they always made her take it on days when not enough boys came simply because she was taller and fitter than most other girls at the classes. She knew all the right moves for both parts, the moves for dancing with a friend, with someone more experienced or someone less experienced, with someone you were trying to seduce. The latter were her favorite.

She spun Myrtle out and in, sometimes so close that they pressed cheeks together, or that their hips touched. Dipped her, too. She had the muscles to hold someone twice as heavy as Myrtle, which meant she could dip deep and hold it. Myrtle was laughing and smiling more earnestly now. Perhaps she'd forgotten the heaviness of their earlier conversation.

After a couple songs, during which she was glad to see Myrtle did not search the room for Tom more than once or twice, she pulled Myrtle off again, and out of the room, down the hallway to the library. It was as deserted as it was the first time she went here with Nick, not even Owl Eyes in attendance this time. Deserted with a dull ambient light, warm and golden. She pulled Myrtle into a corner between two bookcases and pushed her against one of them.

"What are we doing here?" Myrtle huffed, still out of breath from the dance.

Jordan leaned in closer and said, "It's not obvious?" Her hands settled on Myrtle's hips, and she lightly squeezed.

Myrtle's eyes widened. "Miss Baker…" It was the first time she'd spoken Jordan's name all evening.

"Don't tell me you're averse to scandal."

She thought for a moment Myrtle would say something about not liking women, or simply push Jordan away. It had happened to her before. She knew she was lucky her reputation as a woman lover hadn't gotten around in certain circles yet with her activities. But Myrtle didn't push her away after all. Instead, she slumped back against the bookcase and muttered, "Tom will be looking for me."

"Let him look," Jordan said. "It's not like he's your husband, is he?"

A spark lit in Myrtle's eyes. "No," she said. "No, he's not."

Her actual husband, of course, was not worth mentioning at this point. Jordan doubted she remembered his existence. A man like George Wilson did not belong to the golden world of a Gatsby party. Here they were beyond him and his ilk, were something higher, something celestial. And as Jordan closed the distance between their lips, they were far beyond the likes of Tom Buchanan as well.

And Myrtle tasted as fruity as she'd imagined.

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AN: Well, tonight I was cross posting fics from AO3 at a rapid rate, so don't expect me to come up with four Gatsby fics in one night on a regular basis. That said, if you're a Gatsby fan and you read a couple of them, I hope you enjoyed. This one is probably the closest to crack, since Myrtle and Jordan never meet in canon, but hey, Myrtle deserves a little love.

Reviews would be much appreciated. Tell me: Myrtle/Jordan, crack ship or OTP?


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